


Ghosts

by Alvitr



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: F/M, M/M, Modern times, Time Travel, brief appearance of an OFC, drunk!Strange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:06:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4475297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alvitr/pseuds/Alvitr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan Strange and Gilbert Norrell discover how to travel through time during their imprisonment in the Pillar of Darkness. Here is a brief glimpse of them ... in 2015. Written to answer a jsmn_kinkmeme prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Allegedly a response to this jsmn_kinkmeme prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> _Not going to beat around the bush: I have a weakness for historical settings. I love the clothing and the technology and the language and all the weird little details. I love history. And the end of the book provided a great time-travel opportunity for Strange and Norrell. We don't know how time works in Faerie, so it's possible they could pop out into our world at any point in time the author chooses._
> 
>  
> 
> _I just desperately want Strange and Norrell ending up in different places at random time periods. Whichever strikes the author's fancy: the witch-hunting crazes in America and Spain would be very interesting in a world with real magic, modern day might be cool, Strange dabbling in drugs in the 60s, feudal Japan, the Houses of Wisdom in the Middle East ... whatever period and place you love, take me there!_
> 
>  
> 
> So I read that and thought "I WILL WRITE SOMETHING SET IN 2015" because that really makes sense. So here you have it: Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, present day, present time. I might try to write some future pieces set in actual historical periods in the future.

_There's a ghost in me_

_who wants to say "I'm sorry."_

"Ghosts," Ladytron

 

**London**

**2015**

  
  
The tall, rangy man with the wild dark hair knocked back another glass of vodka. He surveyed the dark room before him -- the strobing lights, the press of bodies, the thumping music -- and then, peculiarly, turned his direction to the ceiling and stared intently, as though he were looking at something far past it. He frowned.   
  
Piper thought he was just right. She liked the shabby, troubled-looking ones. Her friends all said she had terrible taste in men, and they were probably right. She made her way over to where he was standing at the bar.  
  
"Hey," she said, and the man looked startled. He blinked at her. She wondered how old he was. He looked perhaps in his late thirties, early forties, but his eyes looked older.   
  
"Hello," he said, a little guardedly.  
  
Piper introduced herself, and asked him his name.  
  
"I am Strange," he said, and then, at her incredulous laugh, clarified, "Jonathan."  
  
Something tingled at the back of her mind; wasn't that name familiar? Was he famous? (Piper had not been much of one for history class.) She dismissed the thought and asked him to dance. For a moment he looked hesitant, and then he looked once more at the ceiling above, shook his head, and took her hand and let her lead him to the dance floor.  
  
The next hour passed pleasantly. The guy didn't know how to dance at all, but after he got a few more drinks into him, he loosened up. He had a wonderful smile, and a dapper, gentlemanly way about him, that became increasingly amusing and sloppy the drunker he got.   
  
"Where on earth did you come from?" Piper asked, laughing after he pulled a chair out for her at the bar.   
  
"Shropshire," he answered, and she laughed again and kissed him.  
  
For a moment, he kissed back, desperately. Then he pulled away. "My apologies," he said, "I cannot -- I should not --"  
  
"Don't be shy," she said, and kissed him again, but he pushed her away gently.   
  
"I'm sorry," he said. "I must go."  
  
"Wait!" she said, grabbing at his arm. "Let me have your number, at least."  
  
"I do not have one," he said, and pulled away. "Goodnight, Miss Piper." and he left.  
  
Piper swore.  


* * *

  
This elevator contraption was taking a long time. The first time he had used it, Strange had been awed by it, but now he stared resolutely at the slowly changing digits above the doors, restlessly hitting at the button of his requested floor over and over again. There were stories separating the ground floor of the hotel and the floor of their room. He had been stretching the limit of the spell that bound them all evening, and had drunk far too much in an effort to forget the ache. His head was pounding. The floor switched from seven to eight, and his gaze dropped. In the shiny metal of the doors, he could see a blurry mirror image of himself. He touched the stiff collar of the shirt he wore, wondered at the scratchy, cheap material that was used these days, and asked himself what on earth he had been doing.  
  
The elevator's bell rang, and the doors opened. Jonathan Strange stumbled out into the hallway, and tried to recall the number of the room. He could not, and so he followed the pull of the spell instead.  
  
They had discovered this way of traveling through time quite by accident. Their first attempts had been conservative and purely educational. But now that they had discovered a way to make the physical appearance of the Pillar unnoticeable to anyone but themselves, they had grown bolder in their travels. Or rather, Strange had grown bolder. He wearied of this imprisonment, and until they could discover a way to finish unraveling the spell, he needed ... distractions.  
  
Yet they were not as pleasant as he had thought they might be.   
  
The spell tugged him down one hall, then another, and then to a door on the right side of the corridor. He fumbled at the lock, then at this pockets, then jiggled the doorknob again. Giving up, he pounded on the door. "Gilbert!" he called.  
  
There was a long pause. Strange slammed his fist on the door and began to call again, but all at once it opened beneath his hands. On the other side, Norrell stood, in his nightclothes, his curly mouse-brown hair exceedingly messy. He looked quite angry.   
  
"Couldn't work the door," Strange mumbled by way of explanation.  
  
Norrell pressed his lips together until the flesh around them went completely white.  
  
"I apologize," Strange said, and staggered into the room, closing the door behind him.   
  
"It is past midnight," Norrell said at last.  
  
"Did I wake you?"  
  
"What do you think?" Norrell said, and then his face crumpled. "I could hardly sleep with that wretched ... sensation plaguing me."  
  
Strange walked over to the bed and collapsed onto it. It felt wonderful. "Is it better now?"  
  
"Somewhat." Norrell stared at him, and his nose wrinkled in distaste. "Mr. Strange, you have imbibed too much."  
  
"That is a certainty," Strange agreed. He closed his eyes and relished the silence.   
  
It did not last long. "We should leave this time period," Norrell said, his voice thick with frustration. Strange opened his eyes, and saw the other man standing at the edge of his bed, staring at him. "I do not like it. There is absolutely nothing to recommend it."  
  
Sitting up, Strange removed his shoes with some difficulty. "I believe that's not entirely true, Gilbert. You like ... what is it called ... inner -- inner what?"  
  
"The internet," Norrell said tiredly, and bent over to retrieve Strange's shoes from where they lay haphazardly on the floor. He lined them up carefully against the wall. Norrell could not abide disorder, and with no servants to instill it, he had learned to make do.  
  
"Yes, that," Strange said.   
  
"Nonetheless, I think we must leave. I do not think this era is good for you, Jonathan."  
  
A wave of irritation passed through him, followed swiftly by an even stronger flood of affection. Norrell often provoked such reactions in him. "Gilbert," he said, his voice scratchy, and he cleared his throat. "Come closer."  
  
Warily, Norrell approached him. As quickly as light, Strange grabbed him by the arm and pulled him closer. He thought of Piper, her green eyes so much like Arabella's, and how her lips had felt. Before he even knew what he was doing -- though that was untrue, he'd known exactly what he was doing, what he wanted to do, had known it all night -- he drew Norrell even closer, and forcefully kissed him.  
  
Norrell struggled against him, then weakened, then struggled again. "Mr. Strange!" he said in indignation when he broke free. But he did not push away completely.   
  
"My name is Jonathan," Strange said.  
  
Norrell's muddy brown eyes blinked rapidly. "I know that perfectly well," he said. "Jonathan, this is hardly appropriate. Among other considerations, you are married."  
  
"Gilbert," he said, his voice hoarse. "It has been so long. We will never get back, will we?"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous," Norrell said. "We have come so far. We will find a way to break the curse, and we will go back to England -- our England."  
  
"That is not what I mean," Strange said. He pressed one hand to the side of Norrell's face. "Everything has changed. We may return, but we will never be the same, will we?"  
  
Norrell looked startled -- whether this was due to the hand caressing his cheek or Strange's words was unclear. At last he said, "Even so ... Jonathan ... we cannot --"  
  
Strange silenced him with a kiss once more. They were both quiet for some time after that, engaged in other things more pressing than conversation. At last Norrell pushed away. "You are drunk, sir," he said. His gaze was unfocused and his voice thick. "We -- we should speak of this another time. You are not yourself at this moment. You might think differently tomorrow."  
  
"I shall not," Strange urged, but he suddenly felt exceedingly exhausted. "But ... you are right. I -- I fear I must sleep." He lay back against the bed and reached out a hand. "Do not go," he murmured. He pulled at Norrell's arm again. "I sleep better with you close, Gilbert."  
  
Norrell sniffed. "The other bed is mere feet away."  
  
"Please," Strange whispered. His eyes were already growing heavy. Through the haze of his eyelashes, he saw Norrell sigh and turn off the electric light. Then the bed shifted and -- at last! There was the comfort of another body near him. He reached for Norrell eagerly. The other man stiffened, and then, after a moment, relaxed. Strange sighed happily. They had slept like this often, in those early days wandering Faerie and the other worlds, but as they had begun to break down the spell and explore more, the distance had grown between them again. He promised himself he would not let it be so again. That was the last thought he had before he drifted off to sleep, lulled by the gentle sound of Gilbert Norrell's steady heartbeat.


End file.
